


Bliss

by Furare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Not Romance, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Relationships, written pre-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Furare/pseuds/Furare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows this relationship is doomed.  That it might end up destroying her.  But somehow even knowing that can't stop her.  Addiction and love aren't the same thing, but sometimes love can be an addiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally published on 12th June 2005. It was one of my earliest "romance" stories, though it isn't romantic in the usual sense of the word. I have problems writing fluffy romance, but it's not like there'll ever be a shortage of silly love stories in the world. (And what's wrong with that?) The vibe I get reading this now is that this is supposed to be a Hogwarts at war, not under siege but aware that the siege could happen any time. Apparently I didn't predict The Extended Camping Trip of HP7.

She stares into the mirror, and the tear-streaked face she sees there doesn't look like her at all. She doesn't recognise this person, this woman who is weak enough to cry, and human enough to hurt so badly. This isn't her, this girl trapped in a cage of her own emotions, savaged half to death by a love that can never be returned.  She can't remember exactly how she got here.  She doesn't recall every step on the path to her disgrace, her downfall, but she remembers enough to torture herself.

She is a traitor.  Not in action, perhaps, but she is a traitor in spirit, and that is what counts.  That is what will stand against her, a black mark on a perfect record, _forever_.  Never mind that she didn't intend to betray them.  She was a fool - but then we are all foolish sometimes, even she, who values wisdom above all else.  And yet... foolishness costs some of us more than others.  For her, it might just cost her everything.

She knows that if she doesn't stop this, it might lose her all she's ever valued, everyone she's ever loved.  She knows that, but she doesn't stop, won't stop, _can't_ stop, for she is an addict and he is her drug.  Like all drugs, he is no good for her.  He hurts her, he wears her down and makes her worthless, and he does it all with a smile on his face.  But she couldn't stop if she wanted to - and she only ever wants to at times like this.  When she feels that she ought to rebel, ought to stand free.  When the deception that has consumed her life becomes too much to bear.  When she fears that, in spite of everything she is and everything she's always believed, she might one day be drawn by her obsession to do things that she will surely regret.

She glares at her reflection, cursing herself for crying, when the tears just disfigure her face.  He will not be pleased to see her like this.  For him, she must be as close to perfection as possible.  She never cries in front of him, because that is a sign of weakness, and he despises weakness.  She doesn't cry because it angers him, because it might make him a little more rough than need be with his hands.  But mostly, she never cries because there's no point.  There is no one there to see but him, and he is as unsympathetic as the Devil himself.  There will be no compassion shown her - and what are tears without the promise of compassion?

She stops crying, but her eyes are still red and swollen.  She knows that she is not attractive at the best of times, and now she is not even presentable.  She would _die_ before she'd let him see her like this.  She holds her wand out and murmurs a word, and her face instantly clears.  Funny that her mind, the best in her year, in the school even, should now be applied to cosmetic charms.  She doesn't appreciate the irony.  She only knows that it's a waste, a criminal waste, and she mourns for what she's become.  She mourns for what this addiction has done to her, but she doesn't try to break it.  She's tried that before, and succeeded only in breaking herself.

She dresses in silence, her wide brown eyes trained on the mirror, marking every move.  She brushes out her hair, no longer bushy after the charms and the potions she's used on it - all for his sake, and he seldom even notices - and looks cheerlessly at the finished product.  She will never be beautiful, but she looks pleasant, and she knows that it's the best she can hope for.  Looking deeper for a moment, she shivers when she sees that the eyes of her reflection are no longer those of a girl, but of a haunted woman.  It frightens her to think about what she has become, and frightens her even more to contemplate _why_.

She leaves quickly, unnoticed.  There is no one _to_ notice.  She slips through the corridors, as silent as the grave, as invisible as if she were wearing the Cloak.  The other students are too absorbed in themselves to notice a girl dressed for a fine dinner, her face set as one going to the scaffold.  And that's all to the good.  She doesn't _want_ them to notice her, or to have to answer the awkward questions that would ensue if they did.  Not even her best friends know everything about her anymore.  They don't know about this addiction of hers.  And they _mustn't_ know. Perhaps they'd despise her for what she's done, and that would be bad enough - but it would destroy her still more thoroughly if they pitied her.

She pokes her head around the door of the meeting place and sees that he is already there, waiting for her.  She knows she isn't late - she checked her watch so many times while getting ready, and on the way to the room - but, as always, he is there first.  He does it to intimidate, she thinks, and whether that is true or not he certainly succeeds.  He looks up as she comes in, and his mouth narrows to a thin line.  She knows that, whenever he looks at her, he hates her for what she is, but even more for what she has done to him.  It makes her own pain much worse to know that this is not a one-way obsession, that he is as truly and miserably addicted to their meetings as she is.  They hate each other, of course - one way or another they always have - but now there is another, more confusing dimension to their hatred.  It is not quite love, but it can't be explained away as mere infatuation.  It is far too raw, too real, to be explained at all.

He looks at her and she shivers.  His eyes are as drab as her own, a cold, hard, mid-shade of grey, but they carry contempt so well.  Almost as if he were _born_ to stare daggers at the inferior.  There is a flicker of some emotion in his eyes tonight; she doesn't know what it is, but it looks like her own emotional turmoil reflected back at her.  But she doesn't speak of it, because the last thing he would want is to be compared to her.  Whatever has passed between them, it doesn't allow her to make any claims on him.  She already knows how he would react to that.

"So," he says, coldly and patronisingly, and she knows that the word _Mudblood_ is hovering perilously close to the tip of his tongue, begging to be said.  "We meet again."  As if he had not arranged this meeting and all those before it - and all those that will surely come in the future.  He manages to make it sound so inconvenient, as if it is _she_ who dragged him here.  As if he could stop tomorrow, when they both know that he is just as much a slave as she is.

She doesn't say anything because he doesn't want her to.  And, besides, she doesn't really have anything to say to him.  _Oh, speechless love_ , she thinks, and then finds herself surprised that she is still capable of any humour, however dark. 

She crosses some of the distance between them and stands looking impassively at his face, willing herself to feel nothing - or, failing that, to show nothing of what she does feel on her face.  He gives a near imperceptible nod and an infinitesimal smile, and she knows that she has passed part of the test, at least.  The first part she will always fail.  She can never pass that, because of who she is, what she is.  She is impure, and she knows it.  It causes her so much pain to know that she is not what he would like her - no, what he _needs_ her - to be.

He is in a good mood tonight, for he steps up to meet her, that thin mockery of a smile still curling his lips slightly.  "So, my dear," he says, every word dripping with cruel irony.  "What shall we do tonight?"  And there is no need for those words, no need at all - because they both know that she is not dear to him, and that they will do what they always do, what they cannot help doing.  It is their addiction, this monotony.  Their addiction and their torture.  It is the inevitable end of this meeting, of every meeting, and both of them know that.  They don't try to fight it anymore... most of the time.

He touches her lightly on the arm, a parody of tenderness, ruined because she _knows_ that he's demeaning himself.  And something in her wants to scream at him for _daring_ , to slap that awful look from his face the way she did once before, years ago - but that part of her lies in ruins now, dead.  The only part of her that still lives is his slave, enchanted by his lies and thrilled by his touch.  And that part knows what is coming, is quivering eagerly with anticipation.  She can see and touch her drug, now.  She absorbs him through her skin, and her heart races as an answering glow lights his eyes.  He feels it too.  She knows he does.  They step closer, closer, until the distance between them has vanished, and he captures her lips in his.  And that is when the world explodes for her.  Everything is gone, her senses ensnared in the rush, consumed in the beautiful and dangerous blaze within.

Time passes unmarked.  The hour is late, and they should be with their Houses, but somehow neither really cares.  They lie in a sated sprawl, the inner addicts still high on raw sensation.  They don't even think to put on their clothes.  No one will come here.  These days, everyone is too absorbed in their own heartaches to look out for anyone else.  And even if they _were_ discovered, no one would believe their eyes.  It is possibly the least likely story in the world.  If she didn't know it was true, if she didn't live it nearly every night, she wouldn't believe it either.

She is the first to leave tonight.  His eyes follow her as she stands up and gathers her clothes from the floor, as she tries to tidy herself up as best she can, but he says nothing.  What can he say?  There are no words.  Their mutual need has been satisfied for another day, and now he neither wants nor needs anything more from her.  Though sometimes... she wishes that he _would_ say something.  A shameful corner of her heart wants nothing more than for him to see her as a human being, to acknowledge whatever this is between them.  She knows that these are foolish and vain hopes.  This is enough for him.  And that's why her addiction is more dangerous than his.  It is enough for him, but for her it never will be.

She makes her way back to the Tower in a dream.  Her thoughts are in turmoil, as always, and she knows that the beautiful high is fading, that she is heading at full speed for the crash.  The terrible, crippling guilt will hit her soon.  The only way to escape it is to escape consciousness.  So she hurries back, slips in through the potrait hole, and climbs the stairs to her room.  Once there she stares into the mirror and once again sees a face she does not know.  This is the addict's face, flushed with the drug in her system, eyes feverish with triumph, hair dishevelled.  The face of a woman with much to regret.

She reaches for the bottle on the shelf under the mirror, and shakes two white pills into the palm of her hand.  Then she swallows them down with water and goes straight to bed, forgetting her clothes, forgetting about everything.  At that moment, all is right with her.  She is still glowing, still possessed, still _perfect_.  And then she lies down to sleep, and her eyes flutter closed as soon as her head touches the pillow.  The sedative kicks in within minutes and then she is asleep.  The sleep is dreamless, a slumber so soft and pleasant because she is neither haunted by the shameful past nor taunted with an impossible future.  It is only now, when she knows nothing, that she can be happy.  Truly, ignorance is bliss.


End file.
